Homework

There are breadcrumbs scattered across the page. The faint marks from my childish error’s softly pressed away. The steam from the potatoes cooking behind me has left a hazy art piece against the cold window. 

I read somewhere once that “a grandfather is someone with silver in his hair and gold in his heart”.

The clean smell of Brylcreem and Old Spice would cut through the buttery essence of mashed potato that drifted through the kitchen. Granda would sit beside me as I recounted my school day. He had already heard it twice on the walk home. I would continue my homework until dinner was ready. 

While staring at the arrangement of letters and numbers scribbled in the small red jotter, in my periphery I would be able to see my Nanny. Her petite frame would be hunched over the giant pot of potatoes. Or at least I think I can. I know that’s where she mashed the potatoes but maybe it wasn’t exactly at homework time. Maybe it was after I finished my homework.

It’s over thirty years ago now so the details are not just as clear as I wish they could be.

The pot was so big I often wondered if I could fit in it. I think I could have. I’m sure I probably tried to as well.

She would have lifted the pot to the floor and sat it on a carpet of newspapers. The scent of butter and white pepper hugged at me when I leaned in to help her. 

Granda, an unassuming and patient man, sat beside me while I tried to guess the right answer. His shirt sleeves rolled half way up his forearms, always ready for business. I never worried about being wrong as he would simply roll a little ball of bread between his fingers before blotching the pencil markings away. There was no point looking for a pencil rubber when a slice of plain bread was within reach.

Nanny and Granda would be talking away to each other. Dropping their voices when particular topics came up that they didn’t want me to hear. I tried my best to concentrate on my sums and not eavesdrop into their conversation. Nanny was from Belfast and was fond of the odd curse word so I always found it entertaining to listen to her chatter.  Everything sounded a little bit more exciting, especially when her strong Belfast accent would peak through. It made it all the more funny to me. I probably never really understood what they were talking about but I would nod and giggle as if I did.

In that kitchen I was being taught maths or how to read, or even how to mash the potatoes the right way. 

In that kitchen, I now know, I was learning so much more.

I was learning about respect, about patience and about love.